


Your Servant, Born Again

by suchdainties



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchdainties/pseuds/suchdainties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon, newly settled at Winterfell, finds a reason to respect one of the Starks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Servant, Born Again

Theon never knew his lungs to be so dry. Every day in the North left him gasping, retching, licking his palms for the salt he missed. Food was no comfort. Meals meant rich stews and land meats carelessly pushed around their trenchers and—when absent the ever-watchful eyes—spat into. It was his game, tearing down what the Starks treasured in his small ways.

 _I’ll gut them from the inside,_ he thought, _and when word gets to father of the demon that haunts Winterfell he’ll know_ I _was the one._ Not a hall was passed through without tipping a sconce or rending a tapestry. When Lady Catelyn arrived at her loom she would find the thread tangled and knotted. When Hullen fetched Lord Eddard’s horse it would be rearing, eyes white with shock. Sansa cried that her gowns came in from the clothesline smelling of piss, and little Arya tugged at dried jam in her hair. Jon Snow he mocked with the greatest delight, sneaking up to his ear to whisper _bastardbastardbastard_ in the space of a breath. The chase was the finest joy of all, knowing his words had hit home and not caring a whit, running from Snow until the wind whipping his face felt like the rush of a wave.

All was well until the impertinence of Robb the Lordling. Robb the Defender. Robb the Beloved, with his cherubic curls and sweet face. Theon dreamt of watching the boy in rising black waters, crying for help, as he turned away and woke smiling.

Ser Rodrik tasked them with polishing the dulled swords they were afforded that year, instructing not to stop until dark. They sat resigned against the stable walls, Theon, Robb, Snow, clouded in the earthy sweet fumes of rotting hay and horse shit. The hiss of cloth on metal was the only sound in the empty yard, a spare whicker issuing from inside. The sky was finally darkening when the creak of the stable doors announced a presence—two by their footsteps. Theon picked out Harwin from his laugh.

“So they let you try the new one, eh?” asked the unfamiliar voice.

“She was wetter’n a trout, I swear!” Harwin said, laughing. “Didn’t have no trouble getting in that stall, if you know my meaning.” His companion groaned then joined in the laughter as they tramped down the building. Theon measured the opportunity. He leaned over to confirm that Jon’s hands had gone still, body rigid. He licked his lips and gazed upward with apparent indifference though his veins thrilled with the heady rush of havoc.

“Hear that, Snow? Your mother’s got admirers.” Jon’s sword clattered to the ground and Robb’s eyes slid to his right. Theon leapt off the bench, smile so wide it stung, and planted himself in front of Jon. “Aren’t you happy, Snow? A stable hand! Means she won’t have to spread her legs for the pig boy anymore.”

A sword point pricked his neck. He gazed down the hilt at Robb, in perfect formation, face calm but for the mouth screwed into an angry knot.

“Say that again, Greyjoy,” he said. Theon snorted and tried to back away but the sword followed, pressing harder this time. “Say it again and feel the bite of my blade.”

“You wouldn’t know how to pay the iron price, Stark,” Theon spat, “No more than you could tell your ass from your ear!” Then they were on the floor, grappling in the dirt. Theon clawed Robb’s face, ripping at the precious auburn hair while Robb pushed on his throat. The young lord leaned forward, pale with fury and righteous cause. Theon thrashed but with each movement his throat constricted further. His efforts waned. The blood pounded in his head and he gasped, vision clouding. 

For a brief moment his lungs stopped. The sky faded to roiling blurs and through the haze he took in eyes, terrible and blue like the soul of the seas he was ripped from. Theon was never blessed by the Drowned God the way men were, but in that instant he felt their ecstasy.

Robb released his hold, falling back. Lights swam before Theon’s eyes and his chest rattled and heaved. A hand extended where a sword had been. He took it and met the eyes again. Submission had brought him closer to home than any wicked deed had. Defeat filled him with hope. _Would it really be so bad,_ he thought delicately, as if Balon himself could still mete punishment on his lost son, _if I serve this one?_

“Never cross me again, Greyjoy,” Robb spoke, steady, sure. Theon paused. He sniffed—a whiff of salt in the air, or just a phantom—then let his voice fill with the same certainty.

“Never.”


End file.
